


Yours Truly,

by evas



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, bbc - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Fanfiction, Love, Love Letters, M/M, Reunion Sex, Virgin Sherlock, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evas/pseuds/evas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The setting is 1873 London, and Sherlock Holmes, nineteen years old, cold eyed and handsome, alternates between sitting positions as he reads in his grand estate..."<br/>Sherlock Holmes is set on becoming the world's first consulting detective! His worlds shifts when he meets an aspiring doctor, John Watson. Unfortunately, they meet one night and John is to go to war in the morning.<br/>John goes, and the two write to each other faithfully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Estate in Which Sherlock Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://imgur.com/SsiQkND)

The setting is 1873 London, and Sherlock Holmes, nineteen years old, cold eyed and handsome, alternates between sitting positions as he reads in his grand estate. The servants come and go, offering the young master any assistance and cleaning up around him. He declines. They leave wondering what it would like to read a book, and to read as many as Sherlock read in one day. Fresh back from studies he had bored of in a short year, he returned to his home in a comfortable countryside and begged his parents to leave him to study what he pleased. 

They reluctantly agreed, knowing just how hard it was to ship him off the first time. They couldn’t imagine anything in the world great enough to behold his attention. The only thing that held his attention was to study and to be in solace. His family complied and he spent his allowances on books of all kinds. He came home weighed down with books of modern knowledge, books that belonged on the shelves of doctors, lawyers, and scientists. He coveted books that didn’t belong on the shelves of a nineteen year old boy. 

His elder brother entered the room and looked at him in scrutiny. Sherlock’s hair, a dark floppy mess was strewn on the fine dark carpet he lay on. He had books all around him- a dingy collection of bootleg books he had purchased for a bargain in the poorest of alleys. Sherlock had his hands pressed together, his fingertips barely brushing upon the fine hairs on his face. He opened an eye to look at his brother, Mycroft, and Mycroft noticed a flutter of sarcastic eye-rolling. He cleared his throat and Sherlock reminded himself to be mindful of his elder. Mycroft was nothing but a daily reminder that Sherlock couldn’t do anything like the normal young men of his age. Mycroft was successful and seemed to be born with a goal in mind to be better at everything than everyone. He had spent the greater part of his adult life working his way into the government of England. Sure enough, he was comfortably nested there and made his parents burst with pride. 

Sherlock didn’t want his parents to mistake him for someone as morally or politically correct as Mycroft. But, his parents were simple minded and Sherlock remained overlooked as he schemed and got most things to go the way he wanted. He wasn’t dangerous per say, but he wanted to be immersed in the dangerous bubbling life of London nobody had seen until now. London was growing exponentially and people were packing up their families to live in the city. They wanted to have their kids in the finest brick learning establishments with starched uniforms. But they didn’t know that a city growing as quickly as London had a soggy underside growing moldy criminal. As the city grew, so did the hungry, the homeless, the poor, the dangerous, the rapists, and the general population was not even aware. 

Sherlock noticed though. He felt privileged to be born in such a time where he could observe something so troublesome. The city was filling with the good and the bad but the regulators, the police, were clearly understaffed. They were in way over their heads and Sherlock could only hope that one day they would need him. For now he was going to study his books. He was going to become GREAT. He was going to study chemistry. He was going to study death, corpses, poisons, and most importantly he was going to study criminal cases. Sherlock poured over the sick twisted archives of brutal murders and mutilations. To solve a crime, he wanted to be able to see it through a criminal’s bloodshot eyes. He wanted to feel their adrenaline and racing thoughts and took a few deep breaths in that moment. As hostile as he was feeling, he probably should attempt to calm down in the presence of his brother before he knocked him on his back. 

With more clarity, his eyes fluttered opened and he looked at Mycroft expectantly. His brother smiled at him in his smallish way and ordered him to join his family at dinner. Sherlock sighed and stood, his blood rushing through every long limb of his tall frame. Such a gawky height he was achieving and his joints ached in the nighttime from growth. He left his scattered books just as they were, planning to return to them soon. A few pages rustled as he followed Mycroft from the study and shut the door. Nothing would make him angrier than to be disturbed in his motivation. 


	2. A Chance Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://imgur.com/poyfl3o)

Sherlock would have hoped that this dinner would be like many others he tediously attended with his family at least thrice a week but he seemed to have lost track of the time. The memory of his mother reminding him that his father’s colleagues were coming for a big dinner flooded back to him. His breath caught in his throat and he knew that as soon as his mother saw his state she would look down disapprovingly. Mycroft leaned into Sherlock and whispered. “I forgot to mention. You should probably clean up a little. You upset mummy and daddy so often, you know.” 

Sherlock threw Mycroft a sinister glare. He knew what he had lead Sherlock into! Instead of wasting time bickering he apologetically glanced around the dining room as he began to exit the way he had come. His father, obviously having had a few drinks already did not notice him but instead laughed jovially and clapped Mycroft on the back as he dragged him to his group of colleagues. Sherlock scanned the group and decided to test his presumption skills. The comically fat man had his specially-tailored bowties made by the skinny Italian sitting next to him. Sherlock could tell by the way he talked and kept pointing at his tie and the Italian’s overly-enthusiastic nodding. ‘That man would agree with anything for a customer.’ Thought Sherlock with a smile and he decided stamp ink stains on the fat man’s grubby hands meant he was either a banker or a postal office worker. Then again, he WAS eating dinner in the Holmes Estate so he was most likely his father’s accountant. 

He looked to the next pair of men. One with hair weighed down with a copious amount of product and a mustache curled at its tips. Most likely an entrepreneur the way he was looking around the room. A man convinced he had a solution for everything. He had a notepad in his lapel but smudged ink stained his hand which meant he was probably scribbling ideas down any time he was hit with them. Sherlock laid eyes on the familiar man with him. He was someone who had been here before, someone introduced as working under Sherlock’s father. He had tried so hard to kiss Mr. Holmes’s arse with gifts but was still uncomfortable in the home. Sherlock could only deduce he envied everything his father achieved and pined for his position in the booming corporate industry. He could tell by the way he held everything in the lush home, even himself. The young colleague held himself so cautiously, trying not to break anything-especially Mr. Holmes’s trust. 

Sherlock looked away quickly. He didn't like the way the man stared at his mother, either. ‘He ought to stop pining for things that aren’t his!’ thought Sherlock angrily. He was about to step from the room when he noticed a man standing near a grand window, swirling a drink in his hand. He exited the room though, deciding to freshen up before he observed the newcomer near the window. Yes, then he would study the short man with a rod-straight stance. The only other thing he caught sight of before shutting the door to the smoky dining room was the man’s silvered and blonde hair. 

Sherlock returned in no time to a room quickly filling with smoke from the men. His mother had excused herself at this point and had most likely retired for the night. Sherlock came in and though he liked the burning feeling of the smoky air in his lungs, he began to walk towards the window. He almost stopped, forgetting the man who had picked the same area of the room for seclusion. He noticed the man was now sitting forward in a chair in front of the window. The window was open and smoke was sucked out into the night sky. Sherlock felt a chill but decided the man looked friendly enough to approach. He could tell nothing of the ordinary man other than the fact that he must be someone boring if he was at one of his father’s parties. 

He swept past the man and could feel the man’s eyes follow him. He took a comfortable seat across from him and turned his gaze up to meet the stranger’s. The man looked back with interest and Sherlock leaned forward. Since he couldn't figure out much of this man, he might as well go through the notions. “Good evening. My name is Sherlock Holmes. You probably know my father...” he stopped short as John reached his hand out. Sherlock took the man’s grasp and took note of his callused fingertips and strong handshake. “Yes, Mr. Holmes invited me tonight. I didn't know he had another son.” Sherlock, caught off-guard, let his face fall a bit. But, it made him feel so inadequate when comments like that were made. Yes, Mycroft was great in his own way, but his father never spoke wonders of Sherlock’s memorization of the lymphatic system. And he probably never would. He pursed his lips and their hands split. To be honest, Sherlock felt like standing and walking out of the room but John’s face held no malice. He did not mean to hurt Sherlock with that comment. He simply did not know. Something in his eyes made him look like he wanted to get to know him. Sherlock stayed. 

“And you are?”Sherlock spoke, and John smiled lightly. “I’m John, Dr. John Watson.” 

A doctor, interesting... Usually a doctor’s hands were much finer than this man’s. Perhaps he was a general practitioner. But then again, what was a doctor doing at this casual gathering? John cleared his throat and answered Sherlock’s thoughts. “I Uh, actually I’m not a doctor just yet. I’m aspiring though.” 

“Where are you studying?” Sherlock asked, surprisingly intrigued. John shook his head curtly. “I’m working for the country in the armed forces. I am nothing but an army chap that’s using my advantage to study with some army doctors.” Sherlock scooped up a wine glass from a tray on the table and gulped it down. John looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock shrugged and said “Just taking advantage.” They both smirked and Sherlock knew he was taking a liking to John Watson. He continued to consume wine and pick at a platter of biscuits and crackers. John and he conversed about interesting points in the medical field. 

John was simply astonished that Sherlock knew so much about the works of Hemholtz and the like. He paused from their conversation of nerve reaction time and asked Sherlock “Excuse me, but just how old are you?!” Sherlock smiled and set another empty glass down. “Nineteen, John. And you are?” John stammered, “Nineteen?! I just turned 27.” They both continued and Sherlock felt his eyes become heavy. 

By the time they came to a consensus on rates of bacterial growth Sherlock looked around and noticed many of the men in the room were sitting around in a subdued state. A cloud of smoke seemed to perpetually cover them and he could hear them barely speak. At once, he felt the room spin. “Doctor,” He said with eyes closed. “Can you help me get out of this room? This smoke is doing strange things to my balance.” “But you’re sitting?” John questioned and Sherlock laughed a little. “Exactly.” John quickly got up and offered his arm to Sherlock. Sherlock stood and clutched at his new friend. “Let’s take a walk on the estate.” He suggested and John agreed. John gawked at Sherlock’s height and looked up at him as they exited through a door by the window. They came into the garden and Sherlock felt some endorphins rush in him as the cold hit them. “Do not mistake me for tall, John; you are simply a short man.” John shook his head and a smile spread on his face again. Sherlock liked making him smile. He took a familiar dirt walk until they came across a bubbling fountain. It was so dark. He reached out again to John and guided him to the edge of the water fountain. They both sat and John studied the night sky. Stars were scattered in the young night and Sherlock sat and reflected. What was this he was feeling towards John? So many times he had talked with others. Nobody quite spoke his language like John did, though. He tried not to think of it too hard and suddenly felt John grab him roughly. He shook with a start and gave John a confused look. Apparently, John had just saved him from falling into the fountain. John held back laughter. “You had a bit much to drink, no?” Sherlock shook his head slowly and John stood up. He pulled Sherlock up and ordered him to direct him to his room. “It’s getting late. You should be getting into bed.” Sherlock felt his surroundings spin again and he held onto John tightly. He pointed in what he hoped was the right direction and tripped as they reached the cobblestone to the entrance of the home. Their laughter bounced off the brick walls of the home and Sherlock’s eyes were so heavy. He tried to open them wide when he felt the familiar floor of his room. John was practically dragging him to the bed at this point and pushed him towards the plush bed gently. Sherlock let himself fall facedown. John sighed as well and sat next to Sherlock’s slack figure. 

“I’m so glad I met you tonight John.” Sherlock said slowly, his voice a few octaves lower than usual. John shook his head lightly and lay back. He stretched his arms out and joked “Well, who else would have carried you to your room!” Sherlock’s laughter shook the bed lightly and he reached out. He let his pale hand stroke John’s tan and lined face. John turned his head a little, stared at John in concern. “What are you doing?” he asked and Sherlock traced John’s hairline softly. “I don’t know.” He answered honestly, confusing feelings brewing inside him and the alcohol only triggered his honesty. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew he wanted to do it. 

Even if he told John what he was feeling, his thoughts firing into many different directions, he doubted that John would understand. Sherlock had not been affectionate with anyone. He was a virgin. He was inexperienced. More than anything- he was scared. He only hoped John didn’t notice the shake in his palms or the hitch in his breath. Perhaps these feelings towards the grown man lying in his bed were more normal than he thought. So many boys draped themselves on the bodies of sexually depraved men. Darting in and out of humid bathhouses, they laughed and loved and didn’t hide their desires. Sherlock sometimes caught the eye of the people walking in and out of the bathhouses. Many men stopped and stared at him, weary of police. Sherlock sometimes wondered if his conflicting thoughts could be read. His father and Mycroft tried so hard to surround him with masculine men and desperate young girls but ironically he was running his hands along his brother’s colleague in his bed. Sherlock felt the same young girl’s desperation in that moment. 

‘Touch me.’ He urged John, without saying a word. 

John tried not to let his breathing escalate as he relaxed into Sherlock’s touch. It had been so long since he was treated so kindly. Sherlock’s hands held a womanly softness and as he ran his eyes over the younger’s frame, he noticed his hips dipped in a beautiful way. He reached out and ran his hand along Sherlock’s fine silhouette. He looked towards Sherlock’s moonlit face and found no distress. “Is this ok?” he asked, referring to the fact that he was exchanging touches with a man; Referring to the fact that he was exchanging intimacy with a young man, to be exact. And a young and beautiful man, to be even more exact. 

Sherlock had his eyes closed but his hand traveled to John’s warm neck. “Don’t tell anyone.” He whispered in a scared voice that for once gave away his age. John shifted closer, their body heat clashing. 

“I won’t.”


	3. A Taste of John

John continued to bring his body even closer, but he took no advantage of Sherlock, even though they both had an excuse to do something they might regret in the morning. Sherlock felt elation burst inside him as John was soon nestled in his arms. They both shut their eyes and John spoke into the dark room softly. “I’m so glad I met you too, Sherlock. You are bloody fantastic.” He felt John’s hands on him again, stroking the curve of his hips. He felt blood rush to his face in embarrassment. John was much older, no doubt much more experienced at just about everything and Sherlock was nothing but a nubile teenager. If there was something he knew nothing about, it was love. Not the type radiating from his mother, but the type of love a couple might covet in secret-that connection of lips and lust. He shivered at John’s touch and felt so flustered-so young. John stopped and pulled Sherlock a bit closer. Just to feel him there. 

“How will I ever forget you, or tonight?” John said, voice premeditating sleep. Sherlock’s brows knitted together. “Why must we forget each other?” he responded and John sighed. “I leave tomorrow for France. Mycroft offered to take me since he was heading there as well. That is why I was here tonight…” Sherlock froze and his eyes opened. He took in John’s dark figure. He wanted to say so much, but did not utter a word. John felt the way Sherlock gripped his shoulders though. He did not want him to leave, but he was afraid of sounding needy. He leaned in and for the first time, pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. “Promise me you will write. Sherlock?” 

“I’ll do anything.”


	4. One Night is not Enough

Sherlock woke with a pressure in his head. He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. He must have slept very late for the room was stuffy and hot. He looked toward the clock near his desk; it was nearly 10 a.m. His eyes were so sensitive to the light; he closed them and stretched his arms over the bed. He felt for John but he felt only emptiness. The reality hit him and he sat up in his bed. John was gone, so was Sherlock’s shirt, but he couldn’t recall what had happened. He felt a sadness that made his lip tremble. He covered his mouth with his fist and wondered why John hadn’t waked him up. John, who had promised Sherlock his love in one night, was gone out of his life just a few hours later. He erased the thoughts that John might meet someone new in France and tried to remember what had happened the night before. 

His memories were filled with John and his lips on his. John had him splayed on his back and he kissed his way down Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock preened into his touch. He remembered John’s laughing as Sherlock’s throat squeaked. He was so sensitive but he could tell John was reveling in the power. Sherlock remembers John repeatedly complimenting Sherlock’s everything. He remembers John unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and kissing his chest. Sherlock blushed and laid back, a deep embarrassment blooming across his face. He suddenly remembered the urgent way John had kissed his bare chest. The way Sherlock moaned into the quiet night and pushed the back of John’s neck. ‘Don’t stop!’ he had pleaded and John let out a contented sigh. 

He pulled back then, insisting that Sherlock was too tired for what he wanted. In fact, he imagined Sherlock didn’t even know what he was getting into. Even John wasn’t sure what he was getting into. As long as it was with Sherlock, he wanted it. Sherlock complied and he closed his eyes. He waited for sleep, counting John’s heartbeats. He lost his consciousness but he could feel John’s arms holding him warmly. 

Sherlock decided he’d get up and open the windows. He stood and felt famished. He stretched. If one night was all he had with John, that was enough. He freed himself from a tangle of his sheets and pulled his shirt from the floor. He pulled it in and inhaled. It smelled like stale smoke and sweat. No traces of John. Disappointed, he dropped the shirt down the laundry shoot and began to make his bed when he noticed a slip of paper flutter to the floor. It seemed to materialize out of his crisp white sheets and he picked it up in wonder. 

It was a postal address. 

Sherlock felt giddy and he ran his fingers along the long-dry impressions of the pen. It was silly to think that one night with John was going to be enough.


	5. The First Letter

From that day forward, Sherlock spent many nights writing to John or wondering if John had received his letter yet. The first letter he sent off began the routine letter-writing between them. It set their sparked-love aflame… 

Dear John, 

While sitting in my library, I attempted to inspect Darwin’s works but my mind persists on traveling. It persists on thinking of you. 

So, I decided to use a bookmark for once and I am using my typewriter for the first time in months. I don’t have many friends John, but I like to think of you as one of them... You are a man worthy of my letters. 

How are you doing in France? Is the weather treating you well? Has anything interesting happened to you since you left the estate so many nights ago? How have you come along in your doctoral studies? 

I feel as if I might sometimes pester with too many questions, but that is how my mind perpetually keeps information flowing. Answer me this, John, what are we doing? Why did you kiss me and hold me? I am not a woman, I’m sure you know. Do not mistake my curiosity for disdain, I enjoyed myself, but I don’t understand why you would pick me. 

Please answer honestly. If you would like to know why I reciprocated feelings of affection, it had little to do with my drunken state, and more to do with my attraction to you, John. It is not every day I meet someone so intelligent.. or handsome! 

Be mindful that I am young and these feelings are new. I’ve never been with anyone and my blossoming desire has only grown for you. No man or woman has affected me more. I hope this letter finds you well, 

~S.H


	6. John's Response

_Dear Sherlock,  
_

_I wish I had a typewriter to respond to you, I hope you can read my handwriting well. I was very glad that you wrote me, for a moment I thought you wouldn’t. I am settled here in the camp in St. Croix, France. It is so beautiful here! Sometimes, I look upon the rushing waters of the cold river while bathing and I think of you. Not in a perverse way, well, not always, but I think about how a new place would incite your curiosity. I’ll introduce you to different places, subjects, and show you things you’ve never experienced before. Just like you said, I’ve never met one quite like you. You are amazing._

_As I left your estate that morning, I thought of waking you. But I decided you looked too comfortable on my chest. I’m surprised you didn’t wake Sherlock! Those ruptured capillaries suggest that you don’t often sleep though; I understand why you so deeply dreamt. But, I was scared that you would run me off the estate. You would accuse me of taking advantage of you, and Mycroft would rid of me in a quick and painless manner. When I saw that you had written, I sighed in relief. You assure me that those kisses were not a mistake. You assured me that night was real, and not some strange fantasy I was having towards a colleague’s younger brother._

_As for your questions Sherlock, we are getting to know each other. We are building something that I can look forward to coming back to. We are sharing our thoughts, feelings; our secrets. I am so lonely, even if I didn’t expect you to come into my life as unexpectedly as you did; I know that I need you. There are so many humans on this planet that everyone is bound to find someone to trust and share companionship with. I know that you are not a woman; you are perfect in the form you’ve been given to me. I told you so many times already, but you are so beautiful it deserves to be said again and again. I kissed you because I wanted to. I kissed you because your eyes were asking me to. I kissed you because I wanted you to miss the way my lips felt on yours._

_I chose you, Sherlock, because an evening with you has opened my future with possibilities. If I give you my love today, will you give me love tomorrow? I chose you, because I was once your age. I may have staved off what I wanted as opposed to what others wanted for me. Questions unanswered were banished by your lips. If I didn’t choose you, I would never prove myself a grown man. I chose you because I could. I hope you choose me too._

_Please, tell me what goes on in your life. So much we talked about your studies and only now do I realize how advanced you are for a nineteen year old student! Has Mycroft returned to London from France? I would ask you to send my regards to him, but i know you probably don’t want him to question why such a great young man such as you is writing an ordinary man like me. We are just starting. Do not worry; you are my secret as long as you wish to be._

_-J.W._


	7. Time Passes

Many months passed and while the seasons interestingly changed, the letters regularly shared between Sherlock and John did not. They fell in love in those short months with words. Sometimes John tried to imagine Sherlock speaking to him, but he found he was forgetting Sherlock’s voice. They both confessed the ferocity with which they missed each other. They felt ashamed. So quickly they were missing each other. So quickly they had fallen.

Sherlock placed every single letter and envelope in a wooden box near his bed and John stuffed every letter into a plastic bag at the very bottom of his pack. Everywhere he went, Sherlock was with him. Sherlock oftentimes reread the letters when he was attempting to sleep and his thoughts only kept returning to John. He would read his favorite parts. He would imagine what it would be like when they reunited. He sometimes reread the letter that John had almost hesitated in sending. Sherlock had asked him how a man and another man made love and John responded curtly what he knew on the subject. Sherlock asked in his next letter what John would do to him if he had the chance. John responded that when two people united in intimate ways, it wasn’t something technical. 

_“Sometimes you have to fall back and let your body tell you what to do. Oh, it tortures me for you to ask me what I would do to you if I had the chance. I would absolutely ravish you. I would show you what it feels like ride out an orgasm, I would find all your ticklish areas, and I would kiss you up and down. I would make you beg for more and mercy at the same time. It is what ravishes my dirty mind when I am half asleep. I would rather not tell you all the dirty details but I hope you are prepared for the exertion I will put your body through one day.”_

Sherlock could hardly get through that excerpt without blushing and stuffing the letter back where it was. John was attractive in every way already, why did he have to torture Sherlock with anticipation. Sherlock often sketched the way he remembered John’s physique. The way his strong arms flexed and his firm chest. He wishes he could somehow reach out and feel John’s safety and warmth radiating from the picture. His mother unexpectedly turned up in his study area and tried to organize his teetering stacks of notes. She pulled up the drawings of John's body and threw Sherlock a questioning glare. Sherlock, already annoyed, shooed her away and snatched the drawings from her. 

"Mother! I am studying anatomy!" he said, but he never did find out if she had believed his ruse. 

As Sherlock read that domestic affairs were worsening in France, he worried throughout the day. He hoped everything was alright with John. John took longer to write, one of his last letters explaining that they were sending him into combat. 

_“I didn’t think things would go this way Sherlock. I never imagined myself fighting for my life. If I do not survive, know that I truly loved you..”_


	8. Sherlock Moves Out

_“I didn’t think things would go this way Sherlock. I never imagined myself fighting for my life. If I do not survive, know that I truly loved you..”  
_

Sherlock closed his eyes to those words. He could not stand to reread them. He put the letter back in his wooden box and a thin layer of dust stirred on his typewriter. Since his last few, hasty letters, Sherlock hadn’t heard from John in six months. He looked around his room that was neatly packed away into boxes. Since John’s death he had decided London was ready for him. If he was not obsessing over his work, he was mourning John. So, he chose to throw himself into his work. He went to bed early and woke to his twentieth birthday. His mother strode into his room as he drank his morning cuppa and swept him into a hug. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked, having granted him his every wish, including the lease of a flat on Baker Street. Sherlock nodded into her embrace and they released each other. “Are you sure you’re not going to be lonely?” she asked and Sherlock immediately thought of John. John, who was probably decaying into the ground the way Sherlock had imagined time and time again. Nothing was lonelier than that, surely. He picked up his cuppa and lied through his teeth. 

“I will be fine, mother.''


	9. Missing

Sherlock clapped his esteemed officer, Lestrade, on the back. “I told you I was right.” He said and Lestrade rolled his eyes. Sherlock immediately went to his home, knowing that Lestrade would be back for his help soon enough. He really was the world’s only consulting detective. Every chapter he memorized, every brick and mortar that went into building his impressive mind-castle was worth it. He walked in to his apartment and called out to Mrs. Hudson. She was not in. He shrugged and went upstairs.

He lay on his couch. His living room was composed of mismatched but elegant furniture he had taken from storage cubicles on the estate. “Outdated.” His mother had said, but they still reminded Sherlock of home. They were the perfect chaos he needed. He sighed and let his mind go for a moment. His thoughts went to John, always. 

He thought of how lonely and quiet the flat was. If John was there, there’d be voices echoing off the walls. They would argue! They would yell they would laugh! He didn’t like to admit it, because it made Sherlock feel young, but he knew if John was there, he would be taken care of. There was absolutely no food in his icebox. He turned the kitchen into a chemist’s health nightmare and Sherlock lost pounds of weight from simply thinking so much about everything else that he forgot to think of himself. 

Sherlock felt tears burn in his eyes. ‘How can you miss someone you hardly knew!?’ he questioned himself. The tears overflowed, etched a wet pattern off his face. That wasn’t true, he knew it. He knew everything about John. He missed John and he hated John for that! He hated John for building him up! He hated John for being stupid- for not taking care of himself- for getting himself killed! Sherlock sobbed and balled the front of his shirt in a fist. Mostly Sherlock hated himself- for letting himself become so involved- no, for loving a dead man as much as he did. 

He sucked in a sob as he heard the door open downstairs. He held his breath. The door shut. 

“Sherlock?” called Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock gathered himself up and went to his room. He shut his door as quietly as he could and tried to make himself invisible. He lay in his bed and pulled a pillow close to him to do what he most hated, and that was to imagine that John was alive and with him. Sherlock hated liars and he became one every night. He whispered words to the heavy pillow in his arms and knew that when people called him freak, they meant it. He felt crazy, but he wished he could lose his mind and feel nothing. Surely it was better that than to feel the loneliness John had left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even I did not expect these later chapters to go as sadly as they did... :'(


	10. The Ultimate Gift

Sherlock felt an uncomfortable heat on his feet, the closest things to his fireplace, but he didn’t mind. They probably needed the heat, the world outside was in the middle of winter. Even snow was falling past Sherlock’s window and melting against the warm window sills. He was undoubtedly bored out of his mind. He knew Mrs. Hudson was out buying things for a little Christmas dinner she wanted to share with Sherlock. He slowly turned a pistol over in his hands. It was ice cold when he pulled it from his bedside. Now it was warmed by his hands, his body heat traveling, and his mind racing.

He cocked the gun and aimed it at different parts of his room. He pointed towards his bone-head friend on the mantel. He pointed it to a lamp which was ironically sitting in darkness. He looked back towards the light shining from the fireplace and pointed the gun at his radio. He shifted the gun again, and pointed it at the box of John’s letters sitting on the mantel. His hand shook. He turned the gun on himself and opened his mouth. He placed the gun inside and painfully pressed it into the roof of his mouth. The flavor of gunpowder and metal flooded his senses. He wanted to be with John this Christmas. That would be the ultimate gift… 

His finger carefully moved to the trigger…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hurt to write.


	11. Mrs. Hudson's Christmas

“Sherlock!!!” Mrs. Hudson called out shrilly. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. He hissed and dropped the pistol. It nestled in between the cushion of his chair and he immediately stood. His shoes were uncomfortably hot. How long had he been sitting there with a pistol in his mouth and his finger on the trigger? He wiped his mouth and looked to the door where Mrs. Hudson presented herself with grocery bags and a smile.

Sherlock didn’t know what he was even thinking. He rushed to Mrs. Hudson and helped her with the bags. She went to work preparing a dinner and smiling and singing hymns. He smiled and walked back and forth washing dishes and getting things out of Mrs. Hudson’s way. “Sherlock, will you play the violin for me tonight?” she asked as she wiped her hands on her apron. He agreed and tried to remember where he had left it. She smiled and thanked him for being such a ‘sweetheart’. 

Mrs. Hudson suddenly gasped and Sherlock rushed to her side. “Did you burn yourself!?” he asked and she shook her head. “I almost forgot to give you your packages Sherlock! Here, I’ll go get—“ Sherlock shook his head, “I’ll go get them Mrs. Hudson.” He assured her and made his way down the stairs to find a bundle of packages held together with twine. He brought it upstairs and sat at the table. He began to stack the fine stationary that could only be Christmas letters from his family. There was even a card from Mycroft which Sherlock raised an eyebrow at… He opened one of the hefty boxes and found a cake from his mother. He set it aside and opened the next gift. It was a fine pair of shoes from his father. He smiled and took a look at the size. Just the right size, he could always expect his father to be accurate. 

He hauled his post to his bedroom to put the shoes away. He threw the letters on his bed and decided he would read them when he had the time. He left the door to his bedroom open in hopes of warming it up and went to enjoy a fine Christmas Eve with Mrs. Hudson. After gifting Mrs. Hudson a beautiful new tea set and playing her favorite songs on the violin he bid her goodnight and helped her downstairs. He carried the jumpers Mrs. Hudson had knitted for him into his room and lastly brought his violin with him. He didn’t want it becoming damaged in the heat of the sitting room. He went to his room which was pleasantly warm at last and readied himself for bed. He stood at his window and took a look at London. Lights were lit up late tonight; everyone was celebrating the holiday together. 

Sherlock slowly brought his violin up and adjusted it under his chin. He knew he didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Hudson but there was one song he knew that was quiet enough to play tonight. He played the notes he had written so long ago. The notes to the song he had written for John. He slowly drew out his bow and pressed his fingers to his taut strings. The song resonated deep in his mind long after he had finished and he set his violin and bow down. 

“Merry Christmas, John.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. He began to settle into bed when he remembered the letters. He gathered them up to set them on the bedside table when one escaped his hold and fluttered to the floor. He sighed and retrieved it. It was a letter forwarded from his estate. He read the return address and felt his world stop. The sound of his heart pounded in his ears. 

J.W. 

St. Francis Infimary, Room 13 

Paris, France 54200-2994 

He recognized that handwriting. He checked the post-marked date and saw 20th of December, 1874. ‘Impossible,’ thought Sherlock. He ripped the envelope open and pulled a thin piece of paper out. 

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I am alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm close to the end now. Thanks for reading guys!


	12. John At War

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I am alive._

_I have been in a hospital for the past 8 months, but I have not been conscious for so long. I was sent into battle and was not only worried about getting shot, but I was caring for wounded soldiers in trenches. It was so dark and so cold for so long. As hard as I tried to stay safe, I found myself surrounded by people who wanted me dead. They shot me, in my arm and in my leg. I have never felt a pain as profound as the moment a bullet tears through your skin._

_I fell, my leg not being able to support me and they trampled me. They hit me, they kicked me, they moved on. They left me for dead but I was somehow still alive. I lay there for what seemed like an eternity until I heard someone walking about, checking dead bodies. I cried out for help, if it was help-then they could take me to the hospital, if it was the enemy-then maybe they would put me out of my misery._

_As you can tell, it was someone from our side and they carried me for miles to the nearest camp. I was treated and handled by French doctors. I could not understand a word of their language but I knew what they were doing. They were checking me for infection and looking at me in a knowing way. I was not going to survive in my current state. I last remember letting myself fall asleep._

_I didn’t wake for another 4 months. The entire head trauma I had received had made my brain weak. It needed time to heal. My coma allowed for my body to heal in miraculous ways. My infection did not spread, it slowed. They pumped antibiotics and supplements into me and when I awoke they transferred me to this hospital in France. I was so lost. Again, nobody spoke English for me and one day I found a newspaper in my room. So much time had passed and I did not even know it! I searched for a pen and paper and wrote you to tell you I was fine. I could not send my letters off though. They were just as confused about me as I was about them and since they could not decipher what I was writing, they refused to help me send it._

_One of the only fellow soldiers who had survived tracked me down and came to visit me a few days ago. He caused a riot in with the French nurses and since I was on my feet and walking again, he arranged everything for me to be back in London._

_Sherlock, I have missed you so long. Since I am leaving so quickly, I could only hope that you somehow are still in London. I know that you must despise me for disappearing off the face of the Earth for 8 months. All I can do now is to make up for lost time with you. There is nobody there for me but you. I am being discharged today and will be taking the train on the 24th. I should be back by Christmas Day at five p.m.; I’ll be at terminal 5 coming in from Paris. I hope you get this letter in time and meet me there. If you are there, I know you have forgiven me._

_If you meet me, I’ll know that what we have is real. But, if you choose to not be there, I understand Sherlock. I only hope you find someone who will treat you better than my absence. You are so brilliant. I spent every waking moment urging myself to heal so that I could get to see you faster. If I return to London and you have moved on, I will too._

_Remember that night we shared? I asked you if you’d write me and you said that you would do anything. You have now become my everything. If you have forgotten about me, then it will be my turn to do anything. I will do anything for you to live a happy life without worrying about me. I only wish for your happiness._

_John Watson_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about not updating for a while. My computer broke and I was devastated because I didn't have my files backed up but luckily I retrieved them and now have a new computer ;)


	13. Free-falling for John (Warning, cute)

Sherlock paced back and forth nervously. He checked his watch every few minutes and willed time to move faster. He had attempted to dress nicely but decided to make his way to the train station in his warmest clothes instead of his finest. His nerves were frazzled. He couldn’t believe he would be seeing John soon. His thoughts jumped from John to making sure he didn’t get pick-pocketed to John to the screeching halt of a train. He looked up. It was terminal 5, terminal 5 at last.

He stood and straightened his spine. The train doors opened and everyone stumbled out slowly. The noise was loud and it continued to build until Sherlock heard nothing. Everything was blocked out when he caught sight of silvery blonde hair and met eyes with John. John’s eyes were wide, they were disbelieving. He was holding an army rucksack and held tightly to a cane which he all but forgot as he made his way towards Sherlock’s tall figure. 

They collided in an embrace. Sherlock’s breath rushed out and he practically lifted John in his arms. “I am so glad to see you, I am so sorry!” John cried into Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock just shook his head. John continued to apologize about everything, his tears soaking Sherlock’s collar. 

“Shhh, John. John… Damn you John…” Sherlock thought meeting John in that moment would incite different feelings. He’d spent so long being hurt yet he was embracing John in a crowded train terminal and he felt towards him just the same as he did at 19 years old. He was at a constant free fall- falling for John.


	14. Together at Last! (The gratuitously smutty and grand finale!)

After they had composed themselves, Sherlock added that they were close enough to walk. “What do you mean?” questioned John, busily wiping his red eyes.

“Oh right,” said Sherlock, remembering John hadn’t been writing him during his move to Baker Street. He walked and talked to John and explained everything. They shared everything that had happened in their lives since the last time they spoke. John spoke of his recovery. Sherlock spoke of his sad, dark days he spent so lonely. He left out the desperation of so many nights. He left out the bit with the pistol and the longing. Maybe he would tell John one day. Either way, John’s face fell and tears formed in his eyes again but Sherlock brought him closer on the sidewalk. He reached between them and grabbed John’s hand. He brought John’s hand to his face and kissed the back of his palm softly. “I’m alright now, John. I’m more than alright.” 

They were at 221B now and Sherlock grabbed John’s bag from his shoulder. He hitched it over his own and grabbed John’s hand warmly. A smile formed on Sherlock’s face and he felt a rush of anticipation. So many times he had imagined John coming into the flat at 221B. He would come without warning and startle Sherlock but Sherlock wouldn’t be mad; not one bit. There were other times he imagined John never having left and how they would both see the flat and agree that it was perfect. They would move in, stumble in late, trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson and trip up the steps. They would live together; Warm John: the sun, and Sherlock revolving: a planet taking in his warmth. Sherlock never in a million years imagined that instead he would be leading John up to his flat by the hand. He did not hide his smile. He was so happy that he would now be sharing his life with John. He led him in and up the stairs and then they were in his flat. He shut the door behind him for the first time since he had moved there. He didn’t feel lonely with John there. He never would. He set John’s bag into a chair and followed John as John marveled at the cozy flat. He gave himself a small tour, smiling as Sherlock told him about the sweet Mrs. Hudson. 

They entered Sherlock’s bedroom last and John ran his fingers lightly on the violin perched by the window. “You really did everything you ever wanted, didn’t you?” John spoke softly and Sherlock slowly reached out. He touched the side of John’s face gently. “Well, not everything.” 

“What else could you possibly be wanting then, Sherlock?” John asked coyly and Sherlock slowly moved his hand to John’s neck. He caressed at the nape of John’s hairline, his hair so finely trimmed short. John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and it felt like the first time. They just stared into each other’s eyes, challenging each other to look away, to feel timid, but they both reveled in the glances they had missed over the years. John began to move closer- Sherlock felt his breath hitch. He knew tonight would be different and as inexperienced as he knew he was, he wanted all of John and **all the time.**

Their lips met, slowly, at first, until John reached around Sherlock and crushed them close together Sherlock gasped and John fitted their mouths together again. He wanted to kiss Sherlock in a way that made up for time lost. It was the type of kiss so many couples tried to perfect. But, John knew that every kiss from there on out would be an apology. 

A soft healing kiss to Sherlock’s furrowed temple… 

Sherlock weaved his fingers into John’s soft hair and noted that this time around there were many scars and bumps on his scalp. 

He felt lust tremble over him at John’s moving lips and he turned his head to the ceiling. John’s lips didn’t leave him, he moved on down to his neck. Sherlock moaned John’s name as they navigated around their floor-bound clothing. John kept his arms loosely around Sherlock’s waist. They stumbled toward the bed and John lay Sherlock down. John’s breath became ragged as he lay on Sherlock- their bodies pulling together like magnets. 

He pulled Sherlock’s mouth to his and all their mechanical and practiced movements of the mouth seemed to be forgotten. Their mouths made soft smacking noises in the quiet night with the frantic need to feel each other’s sensitivity and Sherlock lightly bit John’s lower. John shut his eyes and moaned at the slow pain of his lip escaping Sherlock’s bite. 

John let his hips drive down into Sherlock’s. They both reacted at the awesome sensation by clutching at each other. There was no more clothing to be clawed at though, not anymore. John reached between them: he could feel that heat emanating strongly from their chests, he clutched Sherlock’s phallus. Sherlock could hardly stand it. He let out sounds for release but it only helped to intensify that feeling building up in his abdomen. John felt he was already erectile and without thinking about it, he was rubbing himself on Sherlock’s thigh. A subconscious, animalistic need taking over. 

They hardly parted. Just like John had mentioned before, sex wasn’t about the technicalities. They tried to catch their breath. Sherlock bounced his hips toward John, and they’d cry out together. The sun began to set as John slicked his fingers and penetrated Sherlock against the wall. 

He was holding Sherlock in his strong arms as Sherlock’s legs wrapped around him tightly. John moaned shakily just thinking about this beautiful man draped around him. His eyelids fluttered at the hot sensation of being inside his lover. Sherlock had an arm locked around John, keeping a hold on him as they pushed against each other. His short fingernails clawed John’s left shoulder blade. John angled his member under Sherlock’s entrance. He looked to Sherlock: he wanted consent. Sherlock looked like he was about to come undone. He nodded breathlessly and hugged John close as John slowly entered Sherlock. They went at it slow, Sherlock closed his eyes tight and a few tears squeezed out. John stopped but Sherlock protested with a buck of his hips. 

“I have wanted this for so long, John. I can’t believe this is happening…” 

John’s moans made it harder to breathe. He gasped, trying to form eloquent syllables but failing when Sherlock came. Sherlock shouted in his deep, deep voice and buried his face into John’s neck. John slowed again, helping Sherlock ride it out, and then he laid him on the bed. He kissed Sherlock, a feeling of accomplishment washed over him. Sherlock was covered in his own semen and sweat and had a look of contentedness washed over his face. John had made him come and John had made his thigh muscles twitch and shake. He practically lost it there- at the thought of knowing he would see Sherlock this way many more times. 

He pumped himself for a few more seconds, and Sherlock ran his shaky fingers over John’s chest. He moaned and moaned and the beginning of Sherlock’s name began to form at his lips when he released his come. He felt his spine grow rigid-a proud flower reaching toward the sun! His muscles all clenched into the sweet release and then he slowly wilted over Sherlock. 

Sherlock laughed a little as John then held Sherlock’s face with his splattered hands. He craned his neck away and laughed harder. John began to chuckle as he realized he had smeared Sherlock’s face with their sexual act. He leaned down and caught Sherlock’s gaze. The look asked for a kiss and Sherlock would never be able to deny a kiss to John. Even if he had smeared come onto his cheek. Even if he hadn’t written for months. 

Sherlock and John fell together, as they gathered on the edge of sleep. Tomorrow, was a new day. 

_“I say, Watson,’ he whispered, ‘would you be afraid to sleep in the same room as a lunatic, a man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?’_

_‘Not in the least,’ I answered in astonishment._

_‘Ah, that’s lucky,’ he said, and not another word would he utter that night.”_

_― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Valley of Fear_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fic is all wrapped up and piping hot! Share this around and let me know what you guys think: of the story, of johnlock, of the impending 3rd season! Comments are heaven-sent and I am going to busy myself with a new story so stay tuned lovelies.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are appreciated! Stay tuned for more, I too, am a huge sucker for Johnlock.


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